The Ides of April

XXVII

I had breakfast with my parents. If they were surprised by my early arrival, they hid it well, apart from the customary "Darling, you are always welcome-but don't eat all the olive paste!" After that, "Confess then-what are you up to?" soon surfaced. I didn't keep them in suspense. Nor did I pretend it was sheer love that brought me to share their white bread rolls, cold meats and refreshing cucumber dip. I admitted at once that I wanted the background on the big Viator auction.

By the time I left, equipped with facts, Pa's assessment and the dead man's home address, I knew that he had sold furs from all over the Empire, which no doubt explained why he was acquainted with the plebeian aedile's uncle, a man who hired out warehouses. Importers bring home their gains, then Rome has the cleverest negotiators in the world; these slick leeches never sell to the first comer, but while they haggle their way to the most extortionate deal, the produce has to be put somewhere and kept in good condition.

I had learned in a brief seminar that even in a country as hot as Italy, there was money in fur. Not only were live animals prized in the arena, the rarity and luxury of skins from big cats, bears, wolves, ermine and even rabbits easily found a market. Julius Viator's grandfather had personally travelled to many provinces; so, too, the next generation as they became more and more specialised and prosperous. More recently, Viator had been able to lead a life of leisure in Rome and instead used troops of agents who went out for him. He could spend all day in a gymnasium because he owned many well-packed stores of pelts. He was a stay-in-Rome young man who, had he lived, was about to start his own family.

The house sale on his death had made my auctioneering relatives extremely happy. The profits from fur had paid for an enormous collection of exotic furniture, ancient bronzes, gorgeous silverware- ' plus a remarkable amount of what was, in my father's expert opinion, horrible reproduction Greek statuary. Pa was confidently intending to sell even the fakes. People will buy anything, and a hint of fraud just adds to the excitement for some punters. They hope the auctioneer is wrong and they can pull a fast one on him.

Those who think that don't know the Didius family.

It seemed odd to visit a house in the course of my enquiries and find it full of my own people. Julius Viator had lived in a sprawling villa, over the Tiber and in one of the better parts of the Janiculan-I mean, not the teeming favela we call the Transtiberina, which is full of dubious immigrants and criminals huddling out of sight of the authorities, but further along, up on the hillside slopes, with elegant views over to the city. My family has a villa, even better placed than Viator's. It's a quiet area. Imperial freedmen retire there to live off their loot. Successful gangsters and fraudsters have big mansions, heavily shuttered and guarded by mean-looking dogs. Retired senators and impresarios lurk, looking over at the city and mourning their lost glory.

Viator's house had almost been stripped. Our porters came and went in their respectful fashion, carrying out the final pieces to be sold in the Porticus of Pompey, always a favourite auction spot with my late grandfather, Didius Favonius. Supervising was Gornia, who must be ninety now. He had been forced to retire at one point, but when the Saepta Julia burned down a decade ago and a sudden death reduced the family, Gornia wangled himself back in as cover and had never left again. I greeted him, as he tottered about on spindly legs like a stick-insect. He introduced me to one of Viator's staff. Gornia was pretending to let him write notes, though our chief porter always carried lists and costs in his head.

The fellow Gornia brought to meet me, Porphyrius, was a junior secretary, now redundant. He was a slave, not old enough to be granted his freedom, even if Viator's will had provided for it. He must be facing sale to strangers in the near future, though tried to hide his natural anxiety about what fate might await him. Quietly saddened by the loss of his master, he spoke to me freely and was, I thought, trustworthy.

I learned that there were no close family members, which normally guarantees that staff like Porphyrius will be reassigned to them. In Viator's case, after brief provision for his wife, his legacies were all left to distant acquaintances, none of whom wanted any of the household slaves. They were also breaking up the family firm and selling its stock, so there would be more disruption for other workers too. An established home and a thriving business, both created over three generations, would become extinct.

Julius Viator had been married, but recently. The widow had borne him no children and was thought not to be pregnant. This had slashed the amount left to provide for her. She would take away little more than her dowry. Another result of this young man's death, therefore, was that a woman who had never done anyone any harm had to return to her father's house, where she would probably be regarded as a failure for coming home with nothing to show from such a very short marriage.

Porphyrius said Julius Viator, though not intellectual, had been a good master. He was rich enough to be an idle playboy if he wanted, but he did take an interest in the business. He had had many social connections, if few close friends. Everyone liked him. He seemed to have made no enemies. On the day he died, he came in from the gymnasium as normal, went to his room to change his clothes, and was soon afterwards found lifeless on his bed. He had not complained of feeling unwell and did not call out for help. His sudden death, at twenty-three, was regarded as a tragedy.

"What do you think caused that death, Porphyrius?"

"Nobody knows."

"Did a doctor examine him?"

"He had not been ill."

"Was no doctor called to examine the corpse?"

"There was no reason."

"Did the funeral director say anything about his abrupt death at so young an age?"

"Only that there is a lot of it about."

As I left the house, Tiberius turned up. It really riled him that I beat him to it. Furious, he ordered me not to interfere when he had made it plain he intended to take action. Clearly he was unused to having a rival on a case.

"Tough. Here's the situation: it fits the pattern. He had been in perfect health. There was no time to call a doctor and the funeral director only spouted the usual pointless platitudes. There is a young widow. I have been told she is devastated. You know perfectly well, Tiberius, I should do that interview."

"I can handle young widows!"

"Oh I don't think so."

We compromised that we would go together. He would wait outside the room, while I went in to put our questions gently to the heartbroken girl.

She wept a lot. She was only nineteen, completely flummoxed to find herself with such a close bereavement. I interviewed her at her father's house, of course. From running her own large establishment, she had to accept becoming just the little girl at home again, with no real position. Her parents were elderly and though probably kind, they were not up to helping her readjust. She could barely cope with losing her perfectly decent husband, let alone being flung back on the marriage market when she had thought her life's pattern was fixed.

She was not dim. I told her straight that we feared foul play. She became hysterical at my news, but eventually rallied and thought about it more calmly. I could tell that once she was alone, she would continue to brood. It was another aspect of the tragedy. This simple young woman would never escape the horror of her husband's murder.

From the start, I assumed a third party was responsible. I entertained no thought that the wife herself might have killed Viator (normally this is the first issue to investigate). She would have had no idea how to do it. Besides, there seemed genuine affection there-or at least, regret to have lost him. She gained nothing from his death. In fact, she had lost a lot of freedom as the wife of a very rich man- especially (being cynical) one who was out at the gym all day.

I could not deduce how much she had loved her husband, but I saw she felt responsibility towards him. In marriage, what more can anybody ask? She would mourn Julius Viator. She would pick over her memory of their life together, rue they had not taken better advantage of the time they had-even, if she loved him enough, wish she had a child by him. He was a man whose only conversation was athletics, described as a dire dinner companion, yet ample tears would be shed in his memory.

Because the widow could think of no one who had hated Viator, she was now also anxious that the apparently motiveless assailant might home in on her. The killer had not only destroyed her home and shattered her life, he had terrified her.